


...and it was still hot

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Is Also Good At Books, Aziraphale is Good With Kids (Good Omens), But really this is mostly picture book porn, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Far too many footnotes/italics/ellipses as usual, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns for Aziraphale / Brother Francis, He/Him Pronouns for Warlock, I can't help it, Kid Fic, M/M, No Angst, No Smut, Not abusive they mostly don't care, She/Her Pronouns for Nanny, The Dowlings aren't very good parents, Until they change, Well maybe a LITTLE bit of angst, Wow that looks TERRIBLE now that I type it, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: "Didn’t think you’d cut up stiff about it. Mean to say, books are more your thing.  Thought you wouldliketo.”...Well, when you put it that way … hmm…” Brother Francis tilted his head in consideration. “Yes.  I do believe that I know just the thing.”Nanny Ashtoreth asks Brother Francis for a little help in one area of young Warlock's education.A soft, fluffy fic about sharing books and finding a family.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Brother Francis (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Brother Francis
Comments: 22
Kudos: 109





	...and it was still hot

Aziraphale sat in a comfortable armchair next to the wide black bed, reading quietly, while Crowley--laying on his stomach, clutching a pillow stuffed with angel feathers--murmured and snuffled in his sleep. The demon gave one convulsive “Oi!” and jerked violently; Aziraphale leaned over and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, whispering “dream of whatever you like best, dear one”, and smiled softly as the other subsided back into a more restful slumber. 

The angel noticed that all the tossing and turning had dislodged … something … from beneath one corner of the mattress. He carefully eased it the rest of the way out. Bemused, he found himself holding a rather tattered slim volume. The cover portrayed in muted shades a sleepy minotaur-like monster and a sailboat.

“Ah. That takes me back…” Aziraphale sighed.

***

“Beg your pardon, Miss? Isn’t that _your_ job?” The plummy tones were quite at odds with the gardener’s rustic appearance as he knelt in a rather muddy bed of geraniums, gently removing invasive weeds.1 Then again, he only used that particular voice with one being.

“That’s _Nanny Ashtoreth_ to you, _Brother Francis_ ,” the tall woman snapped. Her thin hands were curled in tight fists against her slim hips. “And it’s not like you’re actually _doing_ anything but sit there and let everything _bloom with bloody joy_ at your presence!” She waved one elegant black glove to encompass the exuberant extravagance of the gardens that made the American ambassador’s residence such a showplace.

“That’s not _fair_ ,” Brother Francis pouted. “I have spent … well, it might as well be _centuries_ tending the growing things of Creation…”

“I’ve _seen_ monastic gardens and they’re not exactly _Eden_ …”

“… and I do know what I’m doing and … _oh!_ ” the gardener slammed the trowel into the earth with perhaps a touch of excessive force. “THAT was quite uncalled-for, my dear!”

Nanny Ashtoreth shrugged, then shook her head. “M sorry. You’re right. It is a very”—she curled one severely-painted lip—“ _nice_ garden. If a bit … undisciplined.” She sighed. “The brat just has me on edge, that’s all. Everyone talks about the Terrible Twos, but for _my_ money it’s the, the, _Thingummy Threes_ that are the most _exhausting_. Thank Somebody that he’s finally down for a nap.” For a very brief moment she seemed as if she would simply flop down on the grass, mud and all, then suddenly cried, “ _Throat-slitting_!2 Throat-slitting Threes! Because that’s what I feel like doing to myself, half the time.” She looked down at her pencil skirt and snakeskin kitten heels and sighed again.

“No, _my_ apologies, dear girl.” Brother Francis gave a quick look around, then courteously bowed the nanny towards a charming little garden bench that may not have been there thirty seconds earlier. “You are simply _splendid_ with the boisterous little one.” He brushed his worn beige trousers spotless and sat beside her. “I should not have been _surprised_ ; you have always been a wonder with children. I quite envy your … _rapport_.”

“Eh…” Nanny Ashtoreth looked uncomfortable with this praise, which was odd for a child-care professional. “Warlock likes you well enough.”

“Yes, but he _lo-“_

“DON’T.” The other cut him off sharply. “Just. _Don’t_.”

Brother Francis sighed. “Of course.” He hummed softly for a moment, hands folded in his lap. “If… and I said ‘ _if_ ’, my dear … I were to do as you ask … are you not concerned that it might, well, upset the Balance?”

Someone next to him muttered something that sounded very much like ‘ _fesssstering_ bollocks _to the fucking Balance’_ but couldn’t have been because Nanny Ashtoreth would certainly _never_ say anything that vulgar. She _did_ clearly say, “Didn’t think you’d cut up stiff about it. Mean to say, books are more _your_ thing. Thought you would _like_ to.”

“I am a _gardener_ , not a … _bookseller_.”

“No-ope,” Nanny popped the ‘p’ and grinned. “Can’t see you _selling_ books. Didn’t ask you to. Just a bit of _reading_ , yeah right?”

Brother Francis looked concerned. “I am aware that it is not your _favourite_ activity, but you are perfectly capable of reading. There is something _else_ going on here.”

“’Course I can _read_. Can read like _anything_. Not the _point_.” Nanny Ashtoreth threw her hands up in disgust. “The point is… the _point_ is … ‘Early Childhood Literacy Preparation.’” She crooked her fingers into quotation marks. “That’s what _She_ 3 calls it.” There followed an indescribable noise which could only be transcribed by a string of consonants punctuated by an eldritch sigil or two. “Not that _She_ would skip one of her posh ‘luncheons’ and read them _herself,_ mind you.”

“Surely, er, ‘pre-literacy instruction’ is not such a _terrible_ thing,” Brother Francis responded reasonably. “After all, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World, and Lord of Darkness, etc., might need to be able to read the _instructions_.”

“He’s not the Adversary,” Nanny Ashtoreth snickered, in a voice very unlike her usual ( _any_ of her usual) tones. “He’s a very naughty boy.”

Brother Francis stared at her blankly.

“Yeah, well, anyway…” Nanny Ashtoreth rolled her eyes behind her habitual tinted spectacles. “It’s the _books_ She expects me to read. Dull as dishwater. I mean, I tell Warlock stories _. Great_ stories, _exciting_ stories, all the time, ‘bout ruling the _world_ , crushing his enemies under his _feet_ , and also, y’know, _pirates_ and _bandits_ and _swordfights_ and, and stuff. These are _boring_. And… _nice_. _Wholesome_ , even. I’d rather gargle Holy Water than read them to the kid.”

The gardener hummed thoughtfully. “Surely, well… _Your_ people …”

“Haven’t got one spark of imagination in the whole crew. You know that. I mean, they _tried_. But Warlock’s already too old for _Pat the Hellhound_ , and as for _War and Famine and Pollution Are Friends_ and _Goodbye, Cruel World_ 4\--oi, the illustrations, you wouldn’t _believe_ what Marketing thinks a bunny in striped pajamas _looks_ like5\--the only way I could get Warlock to listen while I read those would be to nail his bum to the chair.”

“Probably not the best idea, that.” Brother Francis looked mildly distressed. “One would expect he’d remember something like that, once he grows into his … when he is older.”

“Ya _think?”_

“So you’re going to enlist _me_ , instead? My dear C- , er, _Nanny_ , I wouldn’t… I couldn’t…”

“Nah. It’s just… well, you _know_ books. You could come up with something _fun._ Something with _bite_.” Nanny Ashtoreth showed her teeth, in what _might_ have been a smile.6

The gardener hummed thoughtfully. “Juvenile literature isn’t exactly my specialty, my dear. I suppose that there’s always _Der Struwwelpeter_ , or perhaps the _Gashlycrumb Tinies_ 7, but I don’t think…”

“Neither do I,” the other snapped. “If I wanted to stay up all night listening to someone howling ' _The Scissorman’s coming!_ ’ I’d have stayed Downstairs. I don’t know _where_ humans come up with this nasty stuff, it’s beyond anything _we_ … Warlock’s supposed to be _giving_ people nightmares, not having them _himself_. Look,” and here Nanny Ashtoreth tucked her chin down, just a bit, so she could send a beseeching look over her dark lenses, “it can’t be _all_ tooth-rot and moral improvement, yeah? There’s got to be _some_ kiddy books about the … _upside_ of being a monster, right?”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way … hmm…” Brother Francis tilted his head in consideration. “Yes. I do believe that I know _just_ the thing.”

“Great, great,” the nanny answered distractedly, standing up and looking towards a second floor window. “Gotta go, Warlock’s waking up. I’ll bring him by tomorrow, a little before his naptime, yeah?”

“Very well. I shall meet you at the pergola.”

Nanny Ashtoreth glanced over her shoulder. “This place hasn’t _got_ a pergola.”

“I hesitate to contradict you, my dear,” the gardener responded mildly, “but it certainly _does_ have a pergola, a very nice and _private_ one, near the greenhouses.”

Nanny nodded in understanding. “Oh. _That_ pergola.”

***

Warlock Dowling was not best pleased that Nanny was taking him to visit Brother Francis. It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ Brother Francis, he _did_ ; the gardener was patient and funny and always seemed to have cookies in his pockets, ‘cept he called them _biscuits_ which was foreign and _wrong_ (but not when _Nanny_ said it, because Nanny was always _always_ right and Warlock did not know what sort of terrible thing would happen if anyone ever contradicted Nanny, but he was sure it would be extremely exciting8). Also Brother Francis let him get dirty and knew _everything_ about plants and bugs and worms and stuff, and if he confused Warlock sometimes by his gentle insistence that “all living creatures deserve our love and respect”, Nanny would always explain afterwards that the gardener was just a “Tool of the Established Narrative”, which didn’t sound very fun, but that Warlock himself was Special and Important and would one day Crush His Enemies Under His Heel, which _did._

No, it was just that “Before Nap” used to mean “ _Story Time_ ”, and _nothing_ was better than Nanny’s stories, ‘specially the ones with lots of stabbing, which was _all_ of them. But when he had pointed this out, conscientiously using that snotty whine that always made Nanny nod in approval, _this_ time Nanny had merely lifted one eyebrow and said evenly, “I _beg_ your pardon, I didn’t _know_ that you wished dessert to be taken off the dinner menu,” so he hastily agreed that visiting Brother Francis was a very good idea after all. And that was all right, because _now_ Nanny said that it would _still_ be Story Time, except that Brother Francis would _read_ him a story, from an actual _book_ , and Warlock was a little excited because he knew that Nanny didn’t really approve of books, so it looked like he was going to catch Brother Francis doing something very naughty indeed. 

And then it seemed like this was quite _true_ , because Nanny took Warlock’s chubby little hand and led him to a part of the grounds where he had never been before, and there was a little building there, except it was all open and round and covered with flowery vine-y plants that smelled sweet, and Brother Francis gave Nanny a conspiratorial little smile before bowing and waving his hand towards what looked like a big wooden swing inside.

“After _you_ , young Master Warlock,” he said gruffly, in accents that even a three-year-old would have recognized as an extremely bad imitation of a rural yokel some seventy years earlier, unless said three-year-old were surrounded entirely by Americans and native Londoners. “ _And_ the lovely lady, of course.”

Nanny huffed, but she didn’t accidentally on purpose grind her heel into his instep as she sauntered past, like she did when one of the Secret Service agents whistled at her last month, and that was because Nanny secretly rather _liked_ Brother Francis, although she pretended she didn’t, which was another reason that Warlock liked him too. She sat primly on one edge of the swing-thing, and hoisted up Warlock to sit in the middle, beside her.

“And a fine day it is, for reading a story,” the gardener went on. He snapped his fingers and reached up, seeming to pull a book from _thin air_ , and Warlock would have been very impressed except that Nanny had once explained about _stage magic_ while promising that someday Warlock would be able to do the real thing, but still was much cooler than anything he’d expected Brother Francis to do.

The old man9 held the volume out to Nanny, but she shook her head. “No, you go ahead. You’ll do it much better. You know how I feel about books. Give me the creeps, a little bit. Every time you go back to an earlier page, the words are _exactly the same_. It isn’t _natural_.”

Brother Francis pursed his lips in annoyance, but Warlock could tell that the look he gave Nanny was a fond one. “You _like_ creepy things.”10 He sat on the other end of the swing, and put a warm arm around the little boy. “Very well, then. But Master Warlock, you’ll have to sit very close to me, so we can look at the words and pictures together. Is that all right?”

Warlock didn’t normally like to cuddle, but there was something about Brother Francis that made curling up against him pretty much irresistible. He was warm and soft and round, and underneath his arm seemed like the safest place in the whole world. “S’okay, I guess.”

“Splendid. Now _this_ book,” and he showed the cover to Warlock, “is called _Where the Wild Things Are._ ” He tapped a finger under some of the letters on the cover as he said the words, and Warlock noticed that he had switched out his usual thick leather gardening gloves for some that were much whiter and softer-looking. “The story and pictures were made by a man named Maurice Sendak” tap, tap “many years ago. Master Warlock, I feel I must warn you …” And here Brother Francis’s face turned _very_ serious, and Warlock might have stopped feeling _quite_ so safe except that the gardener’s eyes retained their kindly twinkle, “that this book is about a boy named Max … a very _naughty_ boy. A _fierce_ boy. One might even say, a _wicked_ boy. Oh, and there are _monsters_! I am not entirely sure that I am feeling _quite_ brave enough … at least not _today_ … for this story.”

“I’M brave,” Warlock insisted. “I’m FIERCE.” 

“Oh, my goodness!” Brother Francis said. His voice was slowly losing its blurry vowels, and sounded much crisper, almost like the newsreaders on the telly. “I can see that you are! Well, then, shall we read it together?” And at Warlock’s nod, he opened the book, and slowly read the title again, underlining the words gently with his finger. Then he turned another page, and there they were, the _monsters_ , except that they were not so much scary as _scared_ , and what they were scared of was a boy who looked a little like Warlock, except Warlock as he always imagined himself when Nanny talked about his glorious future, with a scowl on his face and a crown on his head and claws and a tail, and _ooooh_ …

… and Brother Francis kept turning the pages, and tapping out the words he read, and Warlock held his breath as Max (because that was the boy) was indeed _very_ naughty11, and his mother _called him a bad name_ and sent him to bed without supper; but Max was very clever and escaped his room and found a new home with the Wild Things (because those were the monsters) and because he was brave and ferocious and _magic_ he became the King Wild Thing and they had a kind of party called a Wild Rumpus12 and Warlock did not know _how_ Brother Francis made all the noises for the Wild Rumpus (he was pretty sure he heard a lion, and an elephant, and a scream like the eagle that his father used as his mobile ringtone) but that was the best part of the book, except that the Wild Things weren’t very good friends and Max was _lonely_ and Warlock was so _afraid_ because he thought that Max’s mother didn’t want a Wild Thing with claws and a tail but Max went home anyway and his supper was waiting for him “… _and it was still hot_ ,” Brother Francis read, and no, _that_ was definitely the best part of the book.

Somehow during the story Warlock had wriggled up into Brother Francis’s lap, and now he grinned up into the gardener’s face to meet an expectant return smile. Warlock glanced over to Nanny to see what _she_ thought, but was surprised and a little scared to see his indomitable caretaker staring at Brother Francis, her mouth softly parted, and a look on her face that Warlock had _never_ seen before. Warlock didn’t know what that look _meant_ , but it made his stomach feel a little squirmy, like he might be about to cry, and he didn’t _like_ that feeling, so he called upon all the cunning and ruthlessness that Nanny promised him was his to command, and demanded, “Again!”

So Brother Francis read the story again. And “AGAIN!” And “…again?” Warlock was beginning to wonder if the gardener was actually some kind of wizard, because each time the story stayed the _same_ 13: the same words, the same pictures, the same cacophony of noises during the Wild Rumpus; and (even knowing what was coming) the same _feelings_ : mischief, anger, freedom; fierceness, pride, chaotic glee; weariness, loneliness, fear, and finally the overwhelming relief at being home… accepted, welcomed, _loved_.

That was the first time, but not the last. Warlock and Nanny started going down to the little round shed (” _pergola_ ,” Brother Francis called it, which was a fun word to say) at least once a week, sometimes more.14 The gardener would be waiting with a small stack of books, and he would let Warlock look through them: examining the covers, riffling through the pages, pointing at pictures of characters and asking “who’s that?” Then Warlock would pick one out, and Nanny would sit down on the swinging seat, and “up you go!” lift Warlock up to the middle place, and Brother Francis would lose his funny accent and slide into his Arpy voice15, and then the very best part of any day would begin.

Warlock never knew that there were so many stories! He wasn’t sure where Brother Francis found them, or how the gardener always _knew_ , but there always seemed to be a story that was exactly _right_ for an awful day, for when Warlock didn’t get to do what he felt like, when he was angry or frustrated, when he never even _saw_ Mom or Dad, except maybe for a quick peck on the cheek and a hurried “Be a good boy, now” before they went to some party or speech or something, and Warlock knew it was because he was ugly and wicked and _bad_ , and not even all Nanny’s angry-sounding reminders that no, he was _special_ , that he was _important_ , that someday he would get everything he ever wanted and everybody was going to be _sorry_ didn’t feel quite … true. But then Warlock and Nanny would go to the pergola, and Brother Francis would let him choose a book, and somehow the story wouldn’t tell him, it would _show_ him, that Warlock was exactly who he should be, and that he was special and wanted and _loved_ , just as he was.

Sometimes the story would be about an ugly and mean monster (not like the one in the movie, not with layers like an onion, but plain gross and awful through and through) and the monster _liked_ being a monster, and then he met someone just as ugly and mean and who liked him _because_. And sometimes the story would be about a dumb bird, who wanted to do what everyone told him he mustn’t, and the bird would beg and lie and bargain and throw a tantrum to get his way16, and Warlock would laugh and Nanny would ask him why the bird didn’t get what he wanted, and what _Warlock_ thought would work, and it made Warlock feel very … _something_ … he didn’t know what, but like both Nanny and Brother Francis listened to him, and _cared_ what he thought, like he _mattered_. And sometimes the story would be about a skinny grumpy mean red-haired princess and everybody said she was a Bad Example, but she liked herself just _fine_ , thank you, and she finally met a prissy plump well-behaved dragon, and they agreed to change places, and everybody lived happily ever after, and this story was one of Warlock’s favourites, because it showed that you didn’t have to be a _boy_ to be wicked and scary and bad, and he secretly had been kind of worrying about that.17

These stories, and so many more, and always just _right_. And after days and months and _years_ of Brother Francis’s gentle voice and tapping finger, Warlock began to realize that the squiggly black things on the page were _words_. That they were always the _same_ words. Sometimes Warlock would say the words along with the gardener, who would look so pleased and _fond_ and might give him a gentle little squeeze; and Nanny wouldn’t _say_ anything, but Warlock would notice the smallest curl of a proud smile. Then the books began to get a little thicker, and the pictures became a little smaller, and there were a lot _more_ words, but they were the _same_ words, sometimes, or at least they would be put together the same _way_ , and sometimes Warlock would know the word _before_ Brother Francis would say it out loud. Sometimes these bigger books might be about the same people, only doing different things; like the horridly awful _funny_ boy with the nastily perfect little brother, but the bad boy always won at the end, and Warlock liked how the stories showed that it was much more fun to be wicked with a bunch of equally wicked friends, who liked the same sort of things _you_ liked. And there were the _hilarious_ ones about the two brilliant friends who turned grownups into silly superheroes running around in their _underpants_ , of all things18, and Warlock liked how these stories _proved_ that grownups could be as dumb and stupid and mean as he sometimes _thought_ they were, and that it was _smart_ to do what you wanted instead of what the grownups said, and also that there was nothing better than a good poo joke.

But always, always, after reading one or two (or on particularly good days, three) other books, Brother Francis would snap his fingers, and there would _the_ book, the _special_ book, the _Max_ book. And the gardener would always ask “Master Warlock, are you _brave_ enough today?” And Warlock would answer, “I’m brave and _fierce_ ” and then Brother Francis would begin to read, and it was always the same. And Nanny’s perfect posture would relax, and her sharp edges somehow _soften_ , and Brother Francis would feel sturdy and strong and almost seem to faintly _glow_ , and usually Warlock would fall asleep, there in the pergola, on the swing between Nanny and the gardener, the warmest, safest, _best_ place in the whole _world_ , and sometimes he would dream he was cocooned in large soft feathers, white and black mixed together.

There seemed to be an unspoken arrangement that the story times in the pergola were … not a _secret_ 19, exactly, but something apart, something We Don’t Talk About outside of the little round building. And Warlock continued to be happy with his daily routine. He sometimes thought wistfully of going to school, like the children in books and on the television, but Nanny began to teach him, dumb stuff like counting and clocks, but also Important Things like how to lead his Armies of Doom against all his enemies.20 And he still spent time with Brother Francis, the silly soft everybody-saw-it version of Brother Francis, with his goofy accent and gentle lessons, like when the gardener boosted six-year-old Warlock (Brother Francis was surprisingly _strong_ for such an old man) up into an elm tree to watch baby pigeons peck their ways out of their shells, or when he showed him a beehive secreted within a remote corner of the hedges (“NEVER come here without me, Master Warlock, do you understand, it wouldn’t be SAFE”) and let him poke in a cautious finger and discover the taste of wild honey.

But it became more and more clear to Warlock that his mother didn’t really … well, it wasn’t that she didn’t _like_ Nanny, Nanny was too _Nanny_ to be “liked”, exactly, and Nanny was perfectly _fine_ with that, but Mom didn’t like how much _Warlock_ liked Nanny. And Mom _really_ didn’t like how much Dad … well, once again, his father didn’t exactly _like_ Nanny, but he always looked at her in a … _weird_ way, and tried to stand too close to her, and Nanny was an expert at slithering out of those situations, but Mom didn’t like it, and it all made Warlock very uncomfortable.

So maybe it wasn’t really that much of a surprise when in the spring before his seventh birthday, his parents called him into his father’s study to tell him that he was being _sent away_ , to a boarding school (“Just like Harry Potter!” his mother said brightly, which showed that she hadn’t even seen the _movies_ , let alone read the books, because Harry didn’t have to go anywhere until he was _eleven_ ) and Nanny was going to be “let go”.

 _Tomorrow_.

So he had to go say his good-byes _today_.

And then he was with Nanny Ashtoreth, and she had her thin arms around him, and he was pressed close to her cool, hard chest, and she was saying, “Remember everything I’ve taught you, my darling.”

And Warlock _wasn’t_ going to cry, he was _brave_ , he was FIERCE, and someday he was going to Crush All His Enemies, and then he would go find Nanny and she would stay with him _forever_.

Instead, he went to the gardens to find Brother Francis, so at least he wouldn’t be _alone_ for the summer. But Warlock couldn’t find him _anywhere_. Finally one of the security guys took pity on him and told him that Brother Francis had suddenly “given notice” (“ _I think it was his heart or something like that_ ”). So Warlock wandered around disconsolately until he came to the pergola, and there upon the swing, in a four neat stacks, were all the books that the gardener had read with him and Nanny over the years.

All of them, that is, except the most _important_ one.

And Warlock Did Not Cry. 

Because he was _brave_. He was FIERCE.

And he knew…

he _knew …_

that someday he would come back to this pergola, and the two beings that had always _loved him best of all_ would be sitting there, smiling at him.

And there would be supper waiting for him.

And it would be _still hot_.

***

Aziraphale stood quietly in a pool of light of his own making, turning the book over and over in his hands, gently smoothing the cover. He had _thought_ that he had left it in that stack of books for young Warlock to find, oh, it was _years_ ago now, how time had _flown_ … Crowley must have taken it, for some reason. How _strange_.

Aziraphale became aware of a rustle from the bed next to him. He looked over to find the demon watching him, through half-lidded golden eyes. The angel recognized, with a painful thump of his heart, that wary, vulnerable expression that he had only seen a few times in their long existence.21 Suddenly the presence of this book in Crowley’s flat didn’t seem strange at all. He sat down again, on the bed this time.

“Tried reading it,” Crowley admitted. “Once or twice. Wasn’t … wasn’t the _same._ ”

“Dearest? Do you think,” Aziriphale hesitated. “Perhaps we should visit young Warlock? Just to … check on them, I mean. See that they have … that they are … Well, you know. Now … now that it’s _safe_?”

“Mmmph. Yeah.” agreed a sleepy demon. His mouth quirked up slightly as he closed his eyes. “Read to me, angel?”

“I don’t know,” teased Aziraphale. “Are you _brave_ enough?”

“Shaddup,” Crowley groused, rolling over and twining himself over and under and around22 Aziraphale’s form. “Make sure you put in _all_ the rumpus voices, angel.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and leaned back against the headboard. He snapped his fingers and dimmed the hovering light to a softer golden glow. He turned a page and began:

“ _The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind …_  
_and another …_  
_his mother called him_ “WILD THING!” _…_  
_and Max said_ “I’LL EAT YOU UP!”…  
_so he was sent to bed without eating anything_ …”

FIN

1\. The reader may be assured that the rejects were not tossed into the rubbish, but transported and tenderly re-planted in the wilder sections of several local parks (only to be repeated smited by baffled municipal groundskeepers)  Back

2\. It says a _lot_ about how long Brother Francis had known Nanny Ashtoreth that this bloodthirsty exclamation inspired no more than a slightly raised eyebrow. Back

3\. While Nanny Ashtoreth only called Harriet Dowling “Yes-Certainly-Mam” and “Indeed-Not-Mam” to her face, in all other conversations her charge’s mother was _She_ and _Her_. The capital letters were clearly audible, and entirely distinct from any capital letters that Nanny might employ for her _own_ mother, if she happened to have one.  Back

4\. You know the one – it begins: 

_In the cramped grey room  
there was  
communication equipment  
and a big shiny red button  
and a sign saying  
Authorized Personnel Only…_ Back

5\. Reference link omitted; just do an image search on “evil Easter bunny” and you’ll get the general idea.  Back

6\. but probably wasn’t.  Back

7\. _Der Struwwelpeter_ (translated as _Shock-headed Peter_ ) by Heinrich Hoffman (1845) and _The Gashlycrumb Tinies or, After the Outing_ by Edward Gorey (1963), are both hilarious macabre masterpieces and well worth tracking down; but probably _not_ ideal reading for a toddler, even an incipient Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, etc. etc.  Back

8\. It would have been. Alas, no one in the Dowling household had sufficient nerve.  Back

9\. Warlock was a little fuzzy about adult ages, but Brother Francis had to be _ancient_. Thirty years old at _least_.  Back

10\. So did Warlock, of course. Big creepy fan, him.  Back

11\. Warlock rather liked the idea of threatening to bite his mother, but he suspected that Nanny would just say, “Not _yet_ , darling”, like she always did.  Back

12\. Warlock _very much_ liked the idea of a Wild Rumpus, and he was _almost_ positive he could talk Nanny into _that_. Maybe for his birthday party. Back

13\. at least it was same the first three times. It was _probably_ the same the fourth time, except Warlock fell asleep before Max ever made it to the island, so it is _possible_ that the Wild Things ate Max that time through.  Back

14\. The other days Nanny read to Warlock from the books his mother left in the nursery with a meaningful glare. They weren’t at all like the books Brother Francis would read, but Nanny would read them in an absolute deadpan monotone, with her exquisitely expressive eyebrows making it quite clear how infinitely _stupid_ she thought they were, so _that_ was all right, too. Back

15\. Warlock once overheard Nanny say that to Brother Francis: “You think that the kid doesn’t _notice_ that you only read to him in Arpy?” “My dear, I have _standards._.”  Back

16\. The first time Brother Francis read this story, Nanny had scoffed, “I don’t see what the big deal is, it’s just a _bus_ , let the roof rat drive it already.” “Ah,” the gardener had countered, “but what if the pigeon had wanted to drive a _Bentley_?” And Warlock didn’t know what a Bentley was, but he thought it might be a Bad Word, because at first Nanny seemed furious and kind of … _hissed_ … at Brother Francis, and said that then maybe the pigeon _also_ wanted to be swallowed _whole_ , but Brother Francis just sat there with a little twinkly smile, like Nanny was being _ridiculous_ , which Warlock thought was very brave of him. Then Nanny sort of cocked her head and said grudgingly, “Point taken.”  Back

17\. Although he knew he shouldn’t worry. After all, _Nanny_ certainly wasn’t a boy; and Nanny was a complete Boss.  Back

18\. Nanny’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline when Brother Francis said the title of the first one, but after the gardener started reading about toilets and diapers in his perfectly calm and measured Arpy voice, she laughed harder than Warlock had ever seen. Except that one time with Brother Francis and the wheelbarrow and the hose and the roller skates and the _hedgehog_ , and now Warlock was giggling just remembering it.  Back

19\. Although Nanny made it very clear that keeping secrets from his parents was not only all right, but even admirable. (Keeping secrets from _Nanny_ , on the other hand, was as unthinkable as it was impossible)  Back

20\. His enemies were basically _everybody_ , except Nanny. “Is Brother Francis my enemy, too?” Warlock asked once. “Not … _yet_ , my darling” and Nanny looked so sad that Warlock was afraid to ask ever again. Back

21\. More often, in the past few months. It still hurt Aziraphale to see it, but at least now he could do something about it.  Back

22\. he made a half-hearted attempt at _through_ , but their corporations stubbornly remained solid matter.  Back

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to all the public librarians out there, who save someone’s world every single day; and especially to the children’s librarians, who not only didn’t bat an eye, but pitched in with enthusiasm when I asked for help in compiling a “Booklist for a Baby Antichrist”.
> 
> If you have a local public library, go give them some love (especially in the UK, where libraries are still in quite a bit of danger)
> 
> In addition to the unsurpassed Where the Wild Things Are, the titles specifically referenced in this story are (in order):
> 
> Shrek! By William Steig (warning: VERY different from the film; not a speck of cuteness or sentimentality here)  
> Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus by Mo Willems (really, anything by Willems, he’s brilliant, but I had to include this one for the Bentley joke)  
> The Princess And The Dragon by Audrey Wood (if this isn’t a Princess!Crowley and Dragon!Aziraphale AU, I will eat my copy)  
>  _Horrid Henry_ series by Francesca Simon  
>  _Captain Underpants_ series by Dav Pilkey
> 
> Additional titles recommended: 
> 
> Princess Smartypants by Babette Cole  
> Me First by Michael Escoffier  
> What If Everybody Did That? By Ellen Javernick  
> Pablo Picasso by Ibi Lepscky  
> Tacky the Penguin by Helen Lester  
> Loud Emily by Alexis O’Neill  
> No, David! by David Shannon  
> That Is Not A Good Idea! by Mo Willems
> 
> If you have any more recommendations, I would be so happy to see them in the comments!


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